


to bend; unbroken

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is angry, Anders is on his way to recovery, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme Prompt Fill, M/M, Random Slavers, Rape/Non-con Elements, brief non graphic mention of underage non-con, non con gang bang, pre-fenders - Freeform, pre-handers, several pairs of pants are ruined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: But one of the slaver glanced back at them while the others were talking. Shadows from their campfire twisted and turned on his face, light reflected in his dark, malicious eyes. He wore a slight, crooked smile on his face. He caught Anders’ eyes, winking before turning away.Anders felt a knife twist in his gut.





	1. 1/2

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for kink meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15195.html?thread=57734235#t57734235
> 
> "Hawke and co. are out on the Wounded Coast one day and are ambushed by, templars, bandits, Tal-Vashoth or whoever the A!A wants. It doesn't matter who just that they are overwhelmed and taken prisoner.
> 
> Anders realizes that their captors intended to rape and torture them and he forces their captors to focus on him and him alone. This has the desired effect and the rest of Anders' companions can only watch helplessly as he is brutally gang-raped, beaten and tortured.
> 
> Hawke and co are eventually get lose and rain pain and death down on their captors. After they are all dead Hawke and Co. are surprised to see Anders healing himself and acting as if nothing happened.
> 
> As his well meaning friends try and help him through what happens Anders finally blows up at them that this isn't the first time this has happened and he just wants to forget it happened and he can't do that if they keep bringing it up."

It hadn’t been a particularly busy day for Anders when Hawke came by with his usual retinue of a deadly ex-slave elf and a dwarf with a fondness for dealing with unsavory characters. However, all that said about his day was that Darktown hadn’t had a huge outbreak of some plague and the shaky wooden mine shafts at the Bone Pit hobbled on for another day. Anders was still exhausted to his bone, wrenching the last drops of his mana to repair a broken wrist that a girl claimed was because of a fall down the stairs but he knew better about, and giving away his dwindling supply of stale bread and hard cheese that would have otherwise boosted his strength to the hungry children outside his door.

Exhaustion, it seemed, was a permanent state of being for Anders now, but that was fine. He was an ex-Warden harboring the Spirit of Justice, and a fully harrowed Spirit Healer. He could take more punishment than a girl from a bad home and children born in poverty.

So it was with a fond exasperation that he agreed when Hawke asked him to be the fourth in his party. Aveline had apparently approached Hawke with a news of some bandits hiding out on the Wounded Coast that the city guards could not find. Anders and his clinic could definitely use the extra coin that adventuring with Hawke usually bought him. And if it came from wrongdoers who had, in turn, gotten them from robbing those who could not afford them? Well, that would be the beautiful circle of life and that left the Justice part of his mind purring with contentment. 

They set off for the Wounded Coast just as the sun was dipping beyond the horizon. Though Anders would have liked to had at least a night’s worth of sleep to keep his mind and magic sharp, the bandits only showed themselves at night, presumably to catch travellers when they were at their most vulnerable. The plan, Hawke told them, was to disguise themselves as such to lure them out of their hiding place. It was simple and easy, with little room for mistakes save for perhaps the bandits missing them completely. So Hawke produced two torches and lit them to light the way—any would-be bandit worth their weight would spot them.

They just didn’t account for whatever else might see their light.

The plan worked as it was supposed to. The bandits were skilled enough to give the city guard trouble, and they were well organized too. They had stationed archers high up and unseen in the jagged cliffs of the Wounded Coast to shoot down any bodyguards nobles and caravans might have hired. Hulking bruisers and slighter men with swords intimidated the travellers into giving up their valuables while rogues went around them to finish off any resistance. However, they were not, just as Anders had predicted, a match for the Champion of Kirkwall and his friends. 

It wasn’t the easiest fight they had—that honor went to a particularly incompetent group of Carta dwarves who had blown themselves up in panic when they had seen Hawke approaching. Both the bandit archers and Varric had a difficult time hitting their targets once the torches had been snuffed out with a wave of Anders’ hand, few arrows uselessly embedding themselves into the soft dirt. Fenris was a bright streak of white light in the dark, darting from one men to another and as beautiful and deadly as his dance was, it made him an easy target.

Hawke, on the other hand, was in his element. He blended seamlessly into the darkness, a marvel for a man of his size. He used the cover of shadow to strike at one of the bruisers, bringing him down instantly. He parried a blow from one of the swordsman with his right dagger, lashing out with his left one, leaving the bandit on the ground, bleeding profusely from his neck.

Having faith in his teammates’ abilities, Anders threw down a glyph of repulsion at his feet and focused on keeping Fenris healed, who took brunt of the attacks from the bandits.

When the fighting died down, Anders relit the snuffed out torches to survey the damage around them. About a twenty or so dead or soon to be dead bandits lied beneath their feet.

“Five archers up on the cliffs,” Varric said, rubbing out a bit of blood on Bianca with his duster jacket sleeve, “Or at least there was five, I’m pretty sure one of them fell off when I hit him.”

With a wave of his hand, Anders dispelled the glyph under his feet and walked towards the rest of them, eyeing the various scratches and bruises they all had gathered during the fray. Varric has a nasty gash on his arm from where a lucky arrow had ripped by and Hawke, no doubt, was nursing a large bruise on his chest from where one of the bandits had landed a solid hit with his shield but that seemed to be the worst of the injuries.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Anders commented lightly, strapping his staff to his back. Though he wasn’t completely tapped out, Ander thought it would be wise to keep a drop of mana just in case. Varric and Hawke would have to make due with old fashioned bandages and salve.

Then an arrow whizzed past him and struck Fenris squarely on his shoulder.

Fenris went down with a surprised yell, clutching at the arrow protruding from him. Varric quickly fired two bolts in the direction the arrow had come from and Anders threw a barrier over them.

A short yell told them that Varric’s bolts had found their mark but the fight was far from over. More men poured out of the darkness, surrounding them. In the light of the torches, Anders could see that these men were not bandits at all. Their armor was different, made with lighter colored leather and significantly better than what the bandits had worn, and they held their swords differently, like men who learned swordplay in bits and pieces and on the road. Behind them, Anders could see a hooded figure with a staff. 

Slavers.

Hawke cursed.

“The mage!” Anders yelled to Hawke who nodded and melted into the shadows. Fenris got up but with one of his arms made useless by the arrow, he couldn’t do much except desperately block. Anders quickly threw back a lyrium potion. It wasn’t enough to fill him completely but he felt mana and power rushing back to his arms as Justice lent him his strength. Anders conjured a fist full of flame and threw it down in a wide arc in front of him, catching one slaver who had been advancing towards him. 

Besides him, Varric kicked the shin of the slaver in front of him, then brandished Bianca when the slaver instinctively bent down. The slaver went down unceremoniously as Varric loaded two more bolts, then fired them in rapid succession into the chest of another slaver.

But the slavers were coming faster than they could take them down. Hawke was nowhere to be seen and the hooded mage was firing arcane bolts at Fenris who was struggling to block them with his greatsword. Anders ducked as a particularly large slaver swung a giant hammer towards his head and struck out with the bladed end of his staff, cutting the slaver’s thighs. Blood poured out as he went down with a curse. 

Anders turned just as a slaver raised his sword to strike Fenris down—he threw out his hands and encased him in ice and Fenris finally gave up his greatsword to phased his uninjured arm through the frozen slaver. A wet gurgle frothed past the slavers lips and he limped forward as he died. But in the split second that Fenris was unguarded, the hooded mage caught Fenris with a sickly looking arcane bolt.

Fenris arched as he fell, the momentum of the bolt carrying him a few feet backwards. He landed on his back, unconscious.

“Shit!” Varric yelled nearby and Anders agreed. Varric unclipped a flask from his belt and threw it where three slavers had been running towards them, covering them in burning miasmic liquid. Anders swung his staff, pushing mana out of the tips where jagged spikes of ice erupted forth. 

Just then, Anders saw in the corner of his eyes, Hawke emerging from the shadows behind the mage. He stabbed both his daggers into the mage’s back. The mage crumpled down, mouth open in surprise and pain—he fell dead before he could scream out. With the mage out of the fight, Hawke darted forward, picking off two other slavers in a whirl of blades.

But there were more than a dozen slavers left and Anders found him and Varric completely surrounded. They stood back to back, desperately fending off attacks left and right. There was nowhere for them to retreat to.

A bruiser swung a crude-looking club towards Anders’ head. Anders just managed to block it with his staff, the shockwave travelled down, making his arms shake in pain. His mana supply was dwindling and the slavers did not give him time to reach down into his pouch for another lyrium potion. Behind him, Anders heard Varric curse loudly, followed immediately by a heavy crack, the unmistakeable sound of bone breaking. Varric yelled out in pain.

Two slavers broke off from the group as Hawke took out one more. Hawke lashed out with one arm but the slaver parried, using the side of his sword to catch the grooves of Hawke’s dagger. With a mighty twist, the slaver wrenched the dagger out of Hawke’s grasp, throwing both his sword and dagger aside. 

Anders yelled in alarm when the other slaver swung his sword towards Hawke but Hawke danced out of the way, trying to make for his fallen dagger—

Anders did not see the heavy club swinging to the back of his skull.

Anders shivered as he opened his eyes, the inside of his skull rung with pain. He gingerly felt around where the club had struck him and found a large bump there. They were in one of the caves in the Wounded Coast. For once, the caves looked unfamiliar so the slavers were not using the same cave that everyone else and their mother was using. It explained why they hadn’t heard about a new band of slavers. 

“Blondie,” Varric said quietly as Anders sat up.

“What happened?” Anders asked though the answer was fairly obvious. Varric cradled Hawke’s unconscious head in his lap. Out of all of them, Hawke looked the worst. His forehead and face were covered in streaks of rusty blood that trailed up his face, disappearing into his dark hairline. Varric was holding his left arm to his chest and by the unnatural angle of it, Anders could tell it was broken. Fenris sat a few feet away from them, looking out at the slavers outside their cell—his expression was hard and unreadable, harsh breaths came through his nostrils. The arrow that had pierced his shoulder had apparently broken during the fight but the bit of splint was still embedded there.

All four of them were down to their underclothes, and their hands were tied together with cuffs, though the slaver had left Anders his ragged undershirt. 

“Knocked Hawke out after you went down. Broke my arm after that,” Varric answered with forced lightness in his voice. 

“How long?”

“A couple of hours, give or take.”

Anders sighed and did some mental calculations. It could not have been no more than an hour from the witching hour. Aveline would not realize that they had not come back from their excursion until the morning. Rescue would not be coming any time soon.

“Can you…?” Varric nudged him but Anders shook his head. He tasted the familiar bitter aftertaste of magebane in the back of his throat. He did not even need to try to cast to know that he had been cut off from the Fade. Even Justice was silent in his head. It was one of the strongest magebane he had encountered and though it wasn’t anything to brag about, his experience with them was rather copious.

“Figures,” Varric muttered.

Anders scooted closer to Varric. The cell was nothing more than a section of the cave locked off with some metal bars and a crude lock that would have ordinarily given them no trouble at all but in this state, they might have been in Fort Drakon. It was cold and dark at their end of the cave—the slavers had lit fire in the other end, close enough so that they could watch their prisoners but far enough that the warmth of the fire would not reach them.

Anders shivered again as one of the slavers saw him and approached the cage.

“You,” the slaver said to Anders. Anders could smell the stink of alcohol rolling off him in waves even from inside the cell. 

“Me,” Anders answered back and thought he heard Fenris snort.

“You fuckin’ killed Marcus,” The slaver hiccuped and jabbed his fingers angrily at Anders.

“Ah,” Anders said drily, “Marcus. Of course. I am truly sorry.”

“You bastard!” The slavers grasped the bars with both hands and rattled them so loudly that Anders thought he was going to break their cell down with bare hands. His face was red, both from the alcohol and rage. There were tears in his eyes but Anders did not feel sorry for him. 

“Marcus did attack me first.” Anders told him fairly.

“Fuck you,” the slaver spat, “I’m going to take joy in selling you to the worst scum I can find.”

“You mean after your flesh peddling friends.”

The slaver did not answer. Instead he spat onto the cave floor, threw one last dirty look at Anders and stalked off.

“You did not have to rile him up,” Fenris said quietly.

“Yes, well...” Anders said somewhat lamely. Some habits were hard to break.

The slavers were eating, the smell of their roasting meat wafted over to the cell along with what smelled like strong wine. Anders’ stomach grumbled but he said nothing as he reach out to gently probe Varric’s broken arm. There really wasn’t much he could do now without his magic and nothing to splint his arm with.

“Hold on,” Anders told Varric and managed to take off his undershirt by ripping apart the side seams. Gooseflesh erupted all over his arms as he exposed himself to the cave’s cold air. He ripped the shirt into strips using his teeth until he had a makeshift bandage. He tied it tightly around Varric’s arm with some difficulty.

“That should do for now.”

“Thanks, Blondie,” Varric said, and then added, “remind me to send food down to your clinic more often when we get out of here, will you?”

Anders looked down at his bare torso and then laughed softly. “I’ll have you know I’ve always been this skinny.” Another shiver ran through him and he reached closer to Varric and Hawke until their arms were touching. Warmth blossomed along his arm.

“Come on, Broody,” Varric called out, gesturing to Fenris who had been sitting apart from them. Fenris tore his eyes away from the slavers and looked back. He said nothing but scooted over until he was on the other side of Varric. 

“That’s better.” Varric said.

As uneasy silence fell over them, Anders could hear the labored breathing coming from Hawke. He was still out cold, dead to the world, blood still sluggishly spilling from the cut on his forehead. Thankfully it didn’t look too deep. There really wasn’t much they could do at this point but wait. Neither Varric or Fenris were in fighting shape and Anders was about as dangerous as an average, unarmed man without his magic. 

Aveline would realize something was up in the morning and she would come. She had to.

In the quiet of the cave, Anders could now hear the slavers talking. They’ve finished their midnight supper and were discussing what to do with their merchandise.

“Reckon the elf is gonna fetch a good price,” one of them said. The slavers weren’t specifically after Fenris then, that was good. It looked like they were just some wrongdoers that had gotten lucky.

“My coin is on the mage. His kind always goes for thousands in ‘Vinter,” another slaver piped up, “ain’t so bad on the eyes either.”

“He’s not gonna be so pretty after I’m through with him.” It was the slaver who had accused Anders of killing his friend, Marcus.

“Shit, Val, I know you’re angry but you can’t go around ruining our merch like that.”

Anders bristled at being talked about as if he was a thing, something to be traded for coin.

“Yeah, they took down more than half our crew, we can’t make our regular run. We gotta unload this lot first before we go looking for more men.”

“The dwarf ain’t gonna be worth shit though, we best just kill him.” Anders felt Varric tense, if only slightly and probably out of anger than fear. Anders knew Varric to be unflinching in most situations, even trapped in the damned Deep Roads betrayed by his own brother, Varric had shown no fear. And Fenris, like before, had steeled his expression into showing no emotion at all.

But one of the slaver glanced back at them while the others were talking. Shadows from their campfire twisted and turned on his face, light reflected in his dark, malicious eyes. He wore a slight, crooked smile on his face. He caught Anders’ eyes, winking before turning away. 

Anders felt a knife twist in his gut.

It was a look that he recognized, he had seen it before on other nameless faces. Nameless because he had refused to learn their names even after getting to know them much more intimately that he preferred. It was easier to forget that way because pains and aches and bruises and scrapes were easy to heal, easier because he was a healer. But the memories, they clung to him like foul aftertaste of bitter medicine no matter how many times he rinsed his mouth. To this day, Anders could recall the exact way their fingers gripped his thighs and pulled at his hair but he could not remember a single face.

Revulsion and fear grappled in the pit of his stomach. 

Surely, he had been mistaken. Anders was a far cry from what he had been as a youth. No longer soft and young, Anders was much too skinny and unkempt, often putting too many days between his baths simply because clean water was, at times, a luxury in Darktown. He had lines on his face and bags under his eyes. No one desired him.

But as Anders told this to himself to calm the shaking in his hands, he also knew that it wasn’t about desire, not really. It was about something much more baser than that; it was about domination. The need to put others beneath themselves through violence and humiliation.

Anders looked to Fenris because if there was anyone here that could recognize the look for what it was, it was him. 

Fenris’s green eyes were hard as steel and though his face did not betray any emotion, Anders could see it in the way he held his fist, back ramrod straight. Fenris had seen it too. 

“So,” the slaver who had winked at them spoke up, “now that that’s out of the way, you think we can have a bit of fun?”

“Starting a bit early, aren’t you, Clif?”

Clif shrugged. “The fight got me all riled up.”

Another slaver, one that sat across the fire from Clif chugged the contents of his wine bottle. He threw it at the wall behind him where the bottle shattered into pieces. “I get the elf first.”

Clif laughed. “Fuckin’ elf lover.”

Fenris’s breaths became harsh, small tremors that he could not hide ran down his body. It was painful to witness, and certainly more than Anders had expected to see of Fenris—not that he had ever wanted to see this side of Fenris. It was so much easier hate someone before he saw their vulnerabilities laid bare for the world.

Anders recited a short prayer silently. It wasn’t something he did often but he found that it gave him some measure of help to prepare himself for what was to come. It had always been comforting, during his stint in solitary, to believe that he wasn’t alone, that someone was watching.

Though it had been mere hours, Anders sorely missed Justice, his constant presence pressing into his thoughts.

It was going to be okay. Anders knew this because he had always managed to come out the other end _okay_. 

“Hey, Val.” Anders called out to their captors. Varric jumped in surprise and Fenris turned to look at him. Anders ignored them both. “How do you feel about Marcus missing out on the festivities?”

“Blondie…” Varric warned with a whisper but Anders pretended to not hear.

Val was looking at Anders now, along with every other slaver there. His eyes flashed with anger and Anders pressed on.

“Or will you be enjoying your own private party with Marcus?” Anders forced his lips into a cruel smile, his voice sang with mockery. “You should probably try to warm him up first, I’m pretty sure I froze him solid.”

“Shut your mouth,” Val said, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.

“I would take his advice,” Varric said to Anders again.

“Or what?” Anders challenged, his gaze still steadfast on Val.

“Or I’ll shut it for you,” Val said vehemently, stalking over to their cell. But Anders did not back down, snorting loudly instead.

“Real original, Val, I can tell that Marcus was the one with the wit between you two.”

With a roar, Val lunged, reaching between the bars with both his arm. Varric jumped, tried to pull Anders back with his good arm but Anders made no effort to move away. Val grabbed a handful of Anders’ hair and pulled, lurching him forward, onto his hands and knees.

“He was my brother, wretch.” Val bit out, his hot, sour breath ghosting past Anders’ ears. Anders lifted his head as far as Val’s punishing grip on his hair would allow him to and looked into the slaver’s reddened eyes.

“Then I’m glad I killed him,” Anders spat out.

Val yanked on his hair again, banging Anders’ head painfully against the metal bars. He released Anders’ hair and stood up.

“Get this fucker out.”

Anders’ ears were still ringing painfully from the bars, his vision swimming when he distantly heard the locks being undone. Two pairs of hands grabbed him by his biceps and he instinctively scrabbled to get back on his feet. Anders felt Varric hold onto his arm but he snatched it away. 

Varric’s confused, outraged expression flashed by as he was thrown bodily from the cell, onto the cave floor. 

Anders watched as Val threw the cell door shut with a loud clang. In his anger, he didn’t bother locking it. There really wasn’t a way for Varric and Fenris to get out of their cuffs in their injured states any how.

Maybe he could buy them enough time for rescue to come or, or… Anders didn’t know. But he had to keep the slavers away from them.

“Get your hands off of him!” Varric yelled but the slavers just ignored him. Fenris kept his silence, though the look of growing horror spoke louder than words ever can.

Anders felt the slavers’ hands pressing down on him into the ground, someone squeezing his jaws open. He sputtered as bitter liquid splashed down his mouth, swallowing the first mouthful only out of instinct. He tasted magebane, the familiar weakness in his limbs that followed.

Anders saw Val’s sneering face floating above his. He spat the poison at it.

Val wiped it away with a flick of his wrist, his lips still twisted into an ugly smile though his eyes shone with anger. “You’ll learn how to treat your betters soon enough,” he said.

Anders opened his mouth to retort but Val had grabbed his throat by one hand, choking off any words Anders might have thrown in his way. Anders sputtered as Val squeezed. He knew that they weren’t going to kill him, mage flesh to a bunch of down-on-their-luck slavers with less than half their usual crew was too valuable. Any physical damage short of death, Anders could take. 

He was a healer after all. 

Still fear and breathlessness made his heart flutter inside his ribcage like a trapped bird. Val kept squeezing and Anders felt himself inadvertently spilling tears.

“Oy, don’t kill him,” someone said to Val. He blinked as if he had just realized where he was. He looked down at Anders’ face and then threw him down in disgust.

Anders coughed as air rushed into his lungs, wheezing and coughing. Drool rolled down his chin along with his tears. He pulled himself up on his forearms as much as the slavers would allow him with Val straddling his chest. Anders felt the stinging bite of dirt and rocks under his naked back and arms, the cold of the ground permeating through the thin fabric around his waist.

He tried to ignore the scalding heat from the hands that were restraining him, the way they gripped him hard enough to bruise. But such violence was much easier to deal with than sickeningly soft touches that left not bruises in their wake but forced pleasure and cruel mimicry of love.

Anders could not help the sharp intake of breath when hands grabbed at the waistband of his underclothes, and pushed it down his hips in one vicious stroke. He bucked and thrashed, trying to throw Val off his chest where he sat heavy on his chest like a boulder. He fought because he could and because he knew that some people liked it when he fought hard, liked to think that they had conquered him somehow. 

And Anders could tell by the mean glint in Val’s eyes, was well as some of the others, that they were the same kind of people as some of the templars that Anders had the displeasure of knowing in such personal ways. They saw only two kinds of people when they looked out into the crowd—the one that they needed to bow to, and the one that would bow to them. And these slavers, even if just for a few hours before daybreak, had become sick to bowing.

Anders had them all figured out.

It helped to keep the viscous panic from clawing up his throat.

The slavers’ grips on him were unyielding and Anders felt himself weaken by the seconds. Each pulse of strength that he sent through his muscles left himself emptier than ever, exhausted from the hiking earlier, and even more still, from the fighting. 

Val squeezed his cheeks hard with one hand. “Open your eyes, pretty.” He said and Anders could feel his foul, drunk breath on his face. He hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes.

“Maybe I should break open your mouth and pull out your teeth. Won’t be able to snap and bite so much then,” Val said grinning, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“You won’t,” Ander said in a way that made it sound like both a statement and a question at the same time. His voice was a rush of rough whispers.

Val clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t worry, I know a plenty of ways to make it hurt without it being permanent.”

Anders tried to turn his head, wrench himself out of his hands but Val’s grip on his face was strong. He could not see what was happening with Val sitting on his chest but he felt a pair of hands close around his ankles, wrenching them open.

“Ain’t that a pretty sight,” a voice that Anders recognized as Clif’s whistled from behind Val. 

Anders tried to kick out but his foot might as well have been trapped between two rocks in his state—his arms and torso shook with the effort of keeping himself upright with Val pressing down on him. He felt fingers, like spiders, crawl up his calves with the gentlest, faintest ghosts of touches. In a different time, different place, perhaps the touches could have been taken for reverence. Right now, however, all they did was make the hairs on Anders’ arms stand at their ends.

Anders held his breath as he felt the fingers touch his hole. This part, he’d never get used to, no matter—... It didn’t matter. It was going to be unpleasant and painful.

As if sensing that Anders’ attention was no longer on him, Val smacked him hard, across the face. 

“Look at me,” Val said, voice hard. He pointed to the side where Varric and Fenris was watching with horror scrawled all over their face. Even Varric had fallen silent. “You see your friends, yes?”

Anders did. His gaze slid over them without meeting their eyes.

“If you bite, I’m going to take the dwarf’s arm off,” Val snarled and for a moment Anders couldn’t figure out what Val was talking about. And then he saw the outline of a cock outlined in his dirty pants, bulging out as blood pumped into it.

Ah, of course.

Val gave a vicious one-handed squeeze on Anders’ face and then got up. Anders heaved as the heavy weight was lifted from his chest but before he could do anything or say anything, found himself being flipped. With grim familiarity, Anders shifted his hands so that he was now on his hands and knees.

Were all the slavers going to fuck him? Surely, there must have been one or two that didn’t want to. When it had been the templars, there were always a handful who took their vows of chastity too seriously or had other, more willing lovers. But then again, these men took and peddled people like they were cattle, so what morality was there to be found in them, what love for another being?

Anders braced himself as Val unlaced his trousers and yanked them down to free his half-hard cock. Distracted by what was happening in front of him, Anders jumped when the fingers touched his hole again, wet with some kind of slippery oil. One, thick, hot finger slipped past his ring of muscles and Anders felt himself instinctively trying to push it out which made the men standing behind in snigger. Anders felt filthy from shame.

Then, Val took himself in his hand and nudged the tip of his cock into Anders’ lips. Anders gritted his teeth against the intrusion. He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

Val growled and backhanded him across the face, _hard_. Anders staggered and landed with his cheek to the ground as his arms lost balance, though the hands on his hips prevented him from being knocked over completely. Anders heard Varric’s surprised yelp. Blood rushed from his nose in hot spurts, dripping down his chin.

Val grabbed a fistful of Anders’ hair and lifted him up. His bared his yellowing teeth that Anders, face crumpled into an ugly expression matching his foul breath.

“I ain’t gonna tell you twice. Now, be a good little bitch and suck me off.”

Without waiting for an answer, he shoved Anders face into his crotch, rubbing Anders’ nose into his bush of thick black hair. Val forced Anders’ arms under him again and gave his cheeks a vicious squeeze until Anders relented and opened his mouth. 

Val shoved his cock down Anders’ throat unceremoniously, as the person behind Anders shoved a second finger into his hole. Anders gagged around Val, tears pouring from his eyes as blood continued to spill from his nose.

Val let out a low moan as he fucked Anders’ mouth.

Then, Anders felt the two fingers pull out, their owner was getting impatient.

It wasn’t nearly enough oil to make it comfortable enough for Anders and the stretch burned as the cock breached his entrance. Anders couldn’t help let out a pained groan, making Val fuck into his throat harder.

“Fuck, that felt good,” Val grunted above him. 

“Shit, hurry up,” Clif said from beside them, touching himself over his pants with one hand. In his other hand was a bottle of cheap wine that Anders could smell even with his nose buried in Val’s sweaty groin. The hands that had been holding him down had all released their hold now but Anders could not move, sandwich between two men, both mouth and ass stuffed with cock.

“He looks tight,” someone commented behind him, “how does it feel, Theo?”

The man who was fucking Anders’ ass, Theo, laughed, his voice sounding breathless. “He’s tight alright, I think he’s even tighter than that fake virgin we paid for last week.” There was a titter of laughter at that. 

“Can’t wait to make him all wet and sloppy.”

“Fuck, yeah.” Theo gave a particularly hard slap on Anders’ ass, the sound seemed to echo in the cave. There was another round of laughter.

“Come on, take it.” Val’s hands were still clutching Anders’ hair, pulling at his scalp painfully. Anders was sure that he was going to find chunks of his hair missing when he was through with all this. Val’s breath quickened and his movements became desperate and erratic. Anders’ arms shook with efforts to keep himself upright as Val slammed his hips into his face, his balls slapping lightly on Anders’ chin. 

With his teeth clenched, Val came inside Anders’ throat with a grunt, releasing his hold on Anders’ hair. Anders immediately fell away to the side, coughing and dry heaving. There wasn’t anything in his stomach to throw up, except for some mouthful of magebane. 

“That was quick,” Clif drunkenly commented from the side and Val made a rude hand gesture. He took his softening cock and wiped the spit on Anders’ cheek.

“Maybe I’ll come on his face, I bet he’ll look good with that,” Clif said as Val stepped aside so that Clif could take his place. 

“Be my guest.” Val said, grabbing the wine bottle that Clif had put down. 

Clif took Anders’ face in one of his huge, meaty hands. The gesture was surprisingly gentle after the stinging slaps and the vicious pulls from Val, but still unwelcomed. Clif tucked a strand of blonde hair behind Anders’ ear though it came loose again almost immediately as Theo continued to fuck Anders’ ass. 

“You’re lucky you got magic, pretty, or we would’ve sold you to the first brothel we’ve come across.”

Anders didn’t answer, but sneered an ugly toothy expression, and then spat into the ground.

Clif was huge, his thick cock matching the size of his hands. It wasn’t particularly long, but what he lacked in length, he made up for it in girth, forcing Anders’ jaw open until it ached. And then Anders was filled from both ends once again.

Behind him, someone complained to Theo that he was taking too long to which Theo replied with a hearty laugh.

“Are you so eager to get my sloppy seconds?” Theo said and Anders could hear the grin in his voice.

“Fuck you, man.”

But it didn’t take so long for Theo to build up to his orgasm. He swore and sped up, slapping Anders’ ass lightly. The sound of flesh on flesh, the dirty feeling of Theo’s cock sliding in and out of his ass, the taste of come and Clif’s cock inside his mouth, the smell of unwashed men and sweat, they all invaded Anders’ mind in a cacophony of sensations.

Theo pulled out and then came all over in Anders’ ass in warm, wet spurts. He was replaced by someone who entered Anders’ hole with a drawn out groan full of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he said, giving Anders’ reddened ass a firm squeeze, “are you sure we can’t keep him?”

Clif laughed and then said, “Nah, too dangerous, he’ll have your balls in a flash.”

“Better enjoy this, then.”

Someone to the side—or was it the back?—laughed, and another man said something. There was a murmur of talk and sounds of glasses as the slavers relaxed around Anders. The ache in his bones, the cocks splitting him open from both ends, the pains and nausea from the magebane all seemed to meld together. 

Anders felt himself drift.

He closed his eyes and could almost hear metal armor clinking, echoing in the cave. It must have been his fourth or fifth escape from Kinloch hold—the templars had caught up with him after almost three glorious weeks on the run. It was another two, three days or so as they travelled to the Tower so Anders had been determined to enjoy all that freedom had to offer, even if that freedom was drenched in late summer thunderstorm that ravaged the countryside for days.

The templars, it turned out, were less inclined to enjoy the outdoors as Anders had been. 

They had found a cave in a small cliffside on their way back to Kinloch and holed up until the storm had abated. It was going to be two long days with nothing but cave rats and spiders and each other for company, the Templars were apparently already out of stories to exchange, because really, what experience did a handful of Chantry virgins have to share with the world?

Well, maybe they weren’t _virgins_.

So it took them no less than eight hours of being stuck in that cave to turn their attention to Anders, who had been bound, gagged, and Silenced for good measure—though admittedly, the gag was Anders’ own fault for not being able to shut up.

There was a flicker of warmth from the campfire on his bare skin—though it had been summer and the nights were yet balmy, the storm had forced a chill in the air that was too early for the season. It was a leisurely affair. No one had been so hardpressed to get their rocks off since the storm showed no sign of slowing for hours yet to come. The Templars passed Anders around, some just wanted his mouth, other lifted up their damp skirts so that they could fuck his hole. When night fell, one of them fell asleep with his arms still around Anders, which was probably for the best since he had still been naked and tied up.

When Anders opened his eyes, it was to the rhythm of a man fucking in and out of his ass, and for a second, Anders expected to hear the neverending pitter patter of constant rainfall.

Only half out of his daze, Anders noticed that they had sat him up so that he was sitting in the lap of the man who had been fucking him. His nose had stopped bleeding some time ago but a different fluid dripped down his chin. It looked like Clif had kept his promise after all.

Anders thought, rather sardonically, that he would still rather be stuck in a cave full of slavers than Templars. The slavers would at least leave him be when this was all over, instead of cornering him when he was alone to see if he would be amenable for a second round.

As if keeping him bare and pliant and fucked out for two fucking days in a wet cave wasn’t enough.

Anders was boneless against the man holding him, there was not a drop of energy in his aching arms and legs, not for fighting and certainly not for encouraging. The man seemed to prefer him this way, judging from the way he released hot puffs of pleasured groans into Anders’ ears, whispered wordless praises that made his skin crawl. The man’s thick arms were hooked under Anders’ knees so that he was folded almost in half on the man’s lap. Anders felt himself flutter around the man’s cock as he lifted Anders almost off his cock and then down again. The man rolled his hips, forcing himself deeper into Anders. 

He was using Anders like a toy, a hole to push his cock into and nothing else.

From where he was, Ander could see the other slavers sitting about. Some were watching Anders, their trousers still unlaced from when they were the ones pushing into Anders’ ass or mouth. Others had gone back to eating, drinking, with one or two in their bed rolls, deep asleep. 

To where the caged section of the cave was, Anders decidedly did not look.

What could he possibly see in his friends’ faces that he had not felt for himself? It would unmake him to see the disgust and pity in their eyes, or even worse- understanding.

Anders closed his eyes but held firmly onto the feeling of the slaver filling him up because this was preferable to whatever else his mind would conjure for him from his past. The man seemed like he was in no hurry to finish, his pace was steady as was his breath in Anders’ ears, the wet slaps on skin on skin, and the shallow intake of air from Anders. 

Then beyond his closed eyelids, Anders saw a figure approach. It was Val and he looked drunker than he had been before.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Val slurred, “I want another go at ‘em.”

The man holding Anders chuckled, nuzzling his nose into his hair. He flicked out his tongue and licked a wet, warm stripe up Anders’ exposed neck. Anders would have shuddered if he had the energy to do so.

“You sure you can even get it up?”

“Piss off,” Val said.

The man huffed but nonetheless lifted Anders off his cock with a lewd _schlurp_. He laid Anders under him, not too gently, so that he was on top.

As the man came inside of him, filling him up with even more come, Anders wished that Val was the last one. Everyone else had looked exhausted, and hopefully he would not take so long the second time.

Anders felt Val climb on top of him and let his head roll to the side. He was so tired. Val started thrusting into him, grunting and whispering filthy names and obscene suggestions into Anders’ ears. Half of it made no sense at all in his drunken stupor, it was a wonder that Val could even get it up at all.

But Anders could not hear them.

Because when Anders opened his eyes from where he laid his head, he looked beyond the bars of the cage and his gaze was met squarely with Hawke’s unreadable eyes, so dark underneath his lashes, that they gleamed like onyx in the firelight. 

Suddenly Anders could not breathe. 

When had he woken up? How much of the depravity had Hawke witnessed?

Anders opened his mouth uselessly but found himself at a rare moment of loss for words. It felt like he had to tell Hawke something, explain, make him understand why—but Hawke slowly brought up one finger to his lips, still not taking his eyes off of Anders’ own. Anders did not dare nod but squeezed his eyes once in confirmation.

Hawke’s hand was uncuffed, and Anders realized the slavers had left the cell unlocked when they had rushed to take him out.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up from Anders’ chest but he tamped it down. Instead he locked his gaze with Val, who continued to fuck him while meaningless words still spilled from his mouth.

Val was the first to die. 

His expression had, in a blink of an eye, turned soured, and then crumpled with pain as Fenris’ fist breached his chest with a blue glow. Thick, red blood rolled down Val’s lip as Fenris squeezed his fingers into Val’s heart and crushed it. Fenris caught the dead man by the neck before it could slump forward onto Anders and threw it aside.

With one hard look at Anders, Fenris grabbed his sword that had been lying nearby and jumped into the fray.

It was a bloodbath. 

The slavers were caught off guard and drunk, and despite their injuries, Hawke and Fenris and Varric fought like possessed men. It was a terribly one sided affair. While everyone was distracted, Anders scrambled to where the slavers had stashed their packs and clothes and fished out a flask of lyrium potion from his own.

With a pleasant tingle, mana rushed back into Anders’ arms and legs, into his heart and lungs. It felt as if Anders could breathe again, like everything had been a terrible nightmare and now he was awake. Justice, rejuvenated by the flow of lyrium into his veins, surged forth, and Anders’ bare skin erupted with Fade light. Power and strength found themselves in Anders’ hands, summoned from somewhere deep inside his bones.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Anders threw barriers over Hawke, Fenris, and Varric who were still fighting the remaining slavers. Then he directed a flow of mana within himself. With magebane still in his system, mana was draining as quickly as it had come and he needed to get rid of it. With a spike of mana that felt like a punch to his gut, magebane dribbled up to his lips as he vomited the contents of his stomach onto the cave floor.

Then, he drained another bottle of lyrium in a single swallow, washing away the bitter taste of bile.

Anders sent a wave of healing energy throughout the cave, though he was careful not to get the slavers caught in it as well. It wasn’t enough to mend broken bone, but it filled their bodies with energy, rejuvenating their movements and washing away minor aches and tiredness. Anders threw a couple of more haste spells and rejuvenations and felt that he had done all he could. Justice roared in anger and disgust inside Anders’ head, called out for Vengeance with renewed fervor but a cave, especially one so small as this, was not a good place for destructive magic. 

_Peace_ , Anders thought to Justice, tried to placate him. The slavers would face justice at his friends’ hands. Without taking his eyes off from the fight, he edged quietly to reach his discarded robes and pants and put them on.

It wasn’t long until Hawke slit the throat of the last slaver who went down with a wet, bloody gurgle. Though he had been stripped down to his underclothes, covered in both his and his enemies’ blood, Anders had never seen Hawke look so glorious in that flickering light of the firelight. 

“Anders,” Hawke said, his voice so low that it barely registered.

“Come,” Anders gestured at them, his hand already glowing with healing powers.

With unprecedented focus, Anders healed first the arrow wound on Fenris’s shoulder, despite his protests that he would take a healing potion instead. But Fenris did not put up a fight like usual, keeping to his silence than argue with Anders. He finished healing Fenris quickly, focusing on the wound and refusing to look into Fenris’s eyes. Varric’s broken arm was easier—mending bone was something Anders had plenty of experience in and Varric was a much more cooperative patient. At last, Anders washed away Hawke’s head injury with the last of his mana.

 

“You should heal yourself,” Hawke told him, handing him another lyrium potion but Anders pushed it away, shaking his head. Anders was injured as well but nothing that was major, just a few bumps and bruises from rough handling.

“I’ve already taken two and I’d rather not risk another one.” Hawke frowned at his answer but put the potion away in his pouch.

“What about a healing potion?” He asked instead but that too, Anders declined.

“I’m fine,” Ander said and got three pairs of eyes looking into his face with an incredulous expression. Anders huffed, annoyed. With all his experience in dealing with nights like this, he’s never had, well, friends that needed placating. This was a territory that was unfamiliar to him.

“What I want right now is to get out of this place and get back home,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest. Though he was dressed, his smallclothes had been beyond saving and his pants scratched unpleasantly into his bare, sore ass. He could still feel the slavers’ come leaking out of his hole and he really, desperately wanted a bath.

“Fine,” Hawke said with gritted teeth, anger and fire in his voice. He turned to get dressed.


	2. 2/2

As they travelled towards Kirkwall, dawn broke over the horizon, dark sky turning a brighter shade of grey. Misty morning air hung onto Anders’ face as he breathed in the cold air. Their pockets were laden with loot from the slavers’ treasury, hefty purses of coin taken from a dead man that Anders recognized as Clif. Hawke also salvaged—because that was what he did—a pack full of junk that he would sell to the vendors at the Lowtown market. And when Hawke pressed an additional leather pouch full of silvers and coppers into Anders’ hands, he took it without protest. After all, Anders thought he had quite rightly deserved it. It was going to be emptied into the donation box at Lirene’s anyway.

Morning songbirds were waking up as crickets were starting to die down and the sound of wildlife bustled around them. But their party was silent.

Anders preferred this. It was easier to put everything aside when no one was talking about it, into the deep recesses of his mind where he put such things. He imagined plucking the memories and the sensations from his brain and placing them in a small lockbox. It helped, as it always did.

That was, until they had gotten to Kirkwall where the road split between Lowtown and Darktown. Anders turned to bid the rest of them good night, or rather, good morning, as Kirkwall was coming alive. He had planned on taking a quick bath in his clinic with his small tub, though he usually hated washing in the blasted, leaky thing, it was more than welcome now. Then he would turn to his bed and sleep until the afternoon.

But Hawke, who had stayed unusually close to Anders on their way back, held onto his elbow.

“You should come with me,” Hawke said. Anders stared.

“And why would I do that?” He asked and Hawke seemed to falter. Hawke was a man of few words, usually letting his actions speak for him but he had never seemed unsure of what little words he did speak until now.

“I,.. ah,” Hawke said but still kept a firm hold on Anders’ arm.

“Blondie,” Varric interjected from the side, perhaps taking pity on Hawke’s uncharacteristic loss for words. But his face was full of concern and worry. It wasn’t a good look on Varric’s usually happy face. “Maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now?”

It was the exact thing that Anders had wanted to avoid. He wrenched his elbow from Hawke’s hands—the grip was getting stronger by the second—and looked to Hawke, then to Varric. Something had changed in their demeanor, from the way they looked at him, but didn’t meet his eyes, to the way they spoke to him, voices softer like speaking to a frightened animal. Anders didn’t know how to react.

Anders flailed, then threw a helpless look at Fenris because if there was anyone that would understand, perhaps it would have been him. But Fenris wasn’t even looking at him. He was focused on something on the ground, near his foot. His brows, hidden under a sheet of white hair, was furrowed like he was thinking hard. Anders knew avoidance when he saw it.

“And why shouldn’t I be alone, then?” Anders stuck his chin out and asked, the question coming out with more force than he had intended.

“Well—” Varric started but Fenris suddenly looked up and blurted out.

“The bath.”

“What?”

“A bath,” Fenris said and then cleared his throat. “Hawke’s mansion has a proper bath.”

“Oh, yes, of course, fine dwarven plumbing from what I hear, isn’t that right, Hawke?” Varric nudged Hawke’s side with his elbow.

Hawke quickly nodded. “You are welcome to it,” he said to Anders and then looked around to Fenris and Varric. “All of you.”

But Varric gave a yawn, one that looked a bit theatrical to Anders’ critical eyes, and shook his head. “Norah knows that I always have first dibs at the bathwater.” 

He bid them farewell and trotted off in the direction of Lowtown but not before asking Hawke, “Let me know if something happens?”

Fenris too, declined Hawke’s offer, claiming that he had a functional bath of his own though Anders doubted that Fenris had a single functional window in his rundown house let alone an entire bath. Nonetheless, with a last impassive look at Anders, Fenris too took off, climbing the stairs two at a time.

Kirkwall was transitioning from a sleeping grey city to one full of life and all manner of garbage that usually followed such things. Hawke had Anders by the elbow again, though his grip was barely there this time, almost too gentle, as if Hawke was afraid that Anders would scatter away in a puff of smoke if he pressed too hard.

Hawke’s mansion was blessedly quiet in such early hours of the morning and Anders climbed the final steps up to the bathing chamber with some difficulty. He debated healing away the aches in his knees, at least, but decided that a hot bath would be just as effective at treating that particular ailment. Hawke trailed up from behind, not having said a word since they had departed with their friends. And then, to Anders’ surprise and annoyance, he followed Anders to the threshold of the bathing chamber.

“Did you want to bathe first?” Anders asked but Hawke shook his head. But he did not turn away.

“I know how to operate a bath, you know,” Anders said drily as Hawke continued to hover awkwardly, not coming quite inside the chamber but clearly unwilling to leave Anders alone. “And I haven’t been in danger of drowning myself in a tub since I learned how to keep my neck straight.”

“Ah, yes,” Hawke replied, “Well.”

“I just,” he continued, looking less like the Champion of Kirkwall by the minute. Though, Anders supposed, that Hawke must have had an awkward teenage years too- no one came out of their mother’s wombs fully formed and in armor, however difficult it was to imagine that.

Anders sighed. “I’ll be fine, Hawke.”

Hawke looked like he wanted to say something else but instead he nodded stiffly, turned, and walked back downstairs.

Anders was exhausted. He felt as though he had aged five additional years in just a few hours. He felt neither hunger nor exhaustion but hovered somewhere in the twilight of unconsciousness and wakefulness and his desire for food was intellectual at best. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt. But it was the kind of pain that Anders was used to. He knew that he could push through it because he had done so before.

And so he had.

Anders discarded his dusty robes and pants, letting them fall in a heap near the door. He would need to wash them when he got back to the clinic- he was a veritable expert in getting bloodstain out of his robes and scant few pairs of pants by now. With that thought, as the tub filled with clean water, he started making a list of the things that need to be done around the clinic. He would need to purchase new bandages with the money they had looted from the slavers- there was only so many times you could wash them. Elfroot had also been running low and Anders would need more reagents for potions as well.

Then Anders heard a soft thump behind him. He whirled around, forgetting his nudity, and saw Hawke with a pile of folded towels on the floor.

He had forgotten to close the door.

“Sorry,” Hawke said quickly, “I just wanted to…” He gestured uselessly at the towels.

“It’s alright, I got it.” Anders said.

As Hawke stumbled away, his expression like a raging storm, Anders went to pick up the towels. This wasn’t the first time Hawke had seen Anders undressed- many times they were forced to share a bath or a stream when they were out and camping and Anders’ own sense of modesty had been beaten to submission from his years at sharing a dorm with thirty something apprentices at the Circle. So why had…?

Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung across the tub. His pale skin was littered with bruises, a road map of violence splashed in blue and black, bite marks and scratches in deep red, dried blood streaked across in brown. And on the pale column of his neck was a clear handprint where he had been choked, draped across like a necklace. 

Shame burned through his eyes trailed down his own body, the filth that was on his ass and between his thighs. No wonder Hawke had all but run at the sight of him. Anders was ugly and he looked every inch of the victim that he denied he was. Had this been the reason why Hawke tried to get Anders to heal himself?

Before that trail of thought could lead him into darker paths, Anders stepped into the tub, the water now more than half full with scalding hot water. The heat penetrated deep down into his body, erasing all aches in its path, if only just for a moment.

He thought about it for a moment before lighting up his hand with magic. The healing energy lit the bathwater in blue as it washed away the evidence of the assault he endured. He hadn’t even been injured badly- the worst being the magebane. Though he’s managed to dispel most of it from his body, he was having trouble recovering mana naturally. He would need to rely on lyrium potions when he went back to his clinic.

The best medicine for him right now was rest and that would be hard to find.

Anders sunk into the bath until his fingers started to prune, helping himself to Hawke’s unused perfumed soaps to wash the dirt from himself after. Despite the wealth that Hawke had managed to recover, as well as earn, the man still preferred cheap, unscented blocks sold from a stall in Lowtown.

After, wrapped in the towel that had been dropped earlier, Anders found Hawke sitting on the bench in the foyer, still in his armor.

“Hawke,” Anders called out and Hawke jumped, standing up immediately. 

“Anders, are you…” Hawke faltered, and then looked at his state of undress. “You’ve healed.”

Anders forced a small laugh. “Yes, so I’m all better now.”

But Hawke did not look convinced. When Hawke did not say anything, Anders cleared his throat.

“I was wondering if I could borrow one of your pants,” Anders said, “the coat is fine but the pants are, well, they need to be washed.”

Hawke nodded and then gestured for Anders to follow him. “Orana can clean your coat too,” he said.

“I’d imagine that would get the rumormill turning, Darktown Healer showing up in the Champion’s clothing,” Anders joked weakly. He did not think that Hawke would laugh at that, after all, he was a man of few smiles and fewer laughs but he had not expected Hawke to stop dead in his tracks either, Anders bumping into his solid back.

“No,” Hawke said in a way that also said _and you better not try to run, either_. Anders blinked, unable to comprehend what Hawke was saying for a moment.

“What?”

“You’re not leaving.”

Anders snorted in spite of the annoyance that he felt rising to his face. 

“Are you going to keep me locked up here, then?” At that, Hawke whirled around, daring to have hurt written all over his face. What did Hawke have to be hurt about?

“You need to rest.” Hawke said.

“I can rest at the clinic!” Anders protested, folding his arms over his bare chest, though he knew that he was not going to be doing anything of the sort. But this wasn’t the first time he had gone right back to working and healing after a night out with Hawke and could not understand what the big deal was. 

“No you won’t,” Hawke replied. Anders glared at him. “And it’s safer here.”

“My clinic is plenty safe.” Anders gritted his teeth, and then added, “And I’m capable of defending myself.”

The look on Hawke’s face grated on Anders’ nerves. He felt his muscles tense and his mood jumped from annoyed to furious in scant few seconds. Hawke too, crossed his arms and managed to look much more intimidating than Anders, clad in just a towel. But Anders would not yield. He pushed past Hawke roughly, to the direction of the bath chamber again.

“Keep your damn pants,” Anders said vehemently to Hawke, “I’m going back to the clinic.”

“Anders!” Hawke called out. He reached out to grab Anders by the arm but he slapped Hawke’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” 

Hawke flinched visibly and Anders felt a stab of guilt. Why was _he_ the one feeling bad here? Anders had no desire to stay locked up in Hawke’s estate with others fretting over him like he was some delicate thing who had fainted in the summer heat. He had survived the damned Circle, travelled with the Warden Commander through the darkspawn-infested Deep Roads, had taken a sword through his own heart. He could and did take care of himself everyday.

After getting dressed in his filthy pants and coat again, Anders thundered downstairs and found Hawke standing in front of the door, still in his armor, with his arms still crossed over his chest.

“Let me go,” Anders said through clenched teeth. But Hawke said nothing and kept his feet locked in place. He stared hard into Anders’ eyes and Anders stared right back into those dark eyes that was glinting with anger as clear as crystal. If it wasn’t for the fact that Anders was out of mana, he would have shot a lighting at them.

Seconds ticked by until suddenly, with a sigh, Hawke slumped, releasing his arms and tearing his gaze away from Anders. He ran his hand over his hair, exhaustion blossoming onto his handsome face.

“Fine,” he said, his voice reeking weariness, “fine, go if you will. But at least use the cellar passage.”

So Anders did, the underground shortcut was blessedly quiet and peaceful, compared to the city above it, fully awake in the daylight by now. Though he moved quickly to Darktown, his steps were weighed down by doubt at what had happened at Hawke’s estate. Anders had insisted on leaving, that was true, but now he was thinking that perhaps he should have stayed. If he had been any other patient, he, as a healer, would have recommend at least two days worth of rest to recover from the potent magebane and the exhaustion that was sure to follow both the poison and the psychological strain.

Anders shook his head to himself. His physiology was not the same as his patients- he was possessed by the Spirit of Justice and a Warden- he burned through most poisons faster than others and did not tire as easily. He was fine. What did Hawke know about Anders anyway?

When Anders stepped out of the trap door that connected Hawke’s cellar passage to his clinic, he was taken aback by the number of people that had gathered in front of his door. Had there been an emergency down at the Bone Pit? Or perhaps a new plague had broken out in the short time he was gone. Well, it looked like he wasn’t even going to have time for a nap. With a sigh, he quickly lit the lantern and threw open the doors, making sure to let in the most grievously injured first. 

Then he fell into the familiar rhythm of healing and taking care of those in need. It bought a sense of peace that he embraced wholeheartedly and he lost himself in it. But it did not take long for Anders to realize that something was up. Despite seeing a veritable crowd of refugees outside his clinic, only a few had staggered in, a large number of them choosing reminding outside. And save for two or three emergencies that were quickly taken care of, the number of patients quickly tapered off until his clinic stood empty.

Empty. The door was open and yet no one dared venture into the clinic. Not even a few stragglers suffering from hay fever or children who’s come to beg food off him.

It hadn’t even been two hours. Something was up.

Anders strode across to the door to his clinic and peeked out- the crowd that he had seen earlier was still there but they did not look sick. In fact, a lot of them looked downright healthy and robust, men and women of able ages, rather than too young or too old, like his usual patients were. They were also heavily armed.

Anders quickly shut the door. They were not templars, no, their clothes and weapon were too poorly made for that. Coterie, perhaps, or some other new groups that roamed Kirkwall when night fell. So what were they doing in Darktown in broad daylight? Anders did some quick mental calculations- he would not be able to fight them off in his state now, at best he might be able to scare them off with a fireball that was more light than flame. But that wasn’t worth the risk of a dozen pairs unscrupulous eyes running to the templars yelling _apostate_ and then probably in the same breath, _reward_.

But before Anders could do something, anything, someone pounded on the rickety doors of his clinic with such force that could have splintered the thing.

“Oy, healer!” A gruff voice called out from the other side. And then a wrinkled piece of paper forced its way through the cracks between the door and the wall. There was a short message written on it in familiar handwriting.

_Don’t worry. They are my people. For protection. Rest today. - V_

Anders crumpled the paper in his hands, the edges of it already smoldering. He threw it to the ground and stepped on it, only half because it had burst into flames. 

Anders burst into Varric’s suite at the Hanged Man with a bang. The dwarf, who had apparently been enjoying some soup, gave a surprised squawk and proceeded to spill the entire contents of the bowl down his lap.

“Shit!” Varric yelled, standing up and wildly patting at his ruined pants, “What’s going on, what’s happening?” And then, seeing Anders’ thunderous expression, he grabbed Bianca from the table.

“Where are they?”

Anders slammed the door to the suite shut. He ignored Norah’s distant indignation.

“In front of my clinic,” Anders gritted out, resisting the urge to stamp his foot on the floor. Varric looked like he wanted to sprint out to Darktown so Anders added, “Your men, in front of my clinic!”

“What?” Varric blinked, lowering Bianca a fraction of an inch as he did so. “I… Oh.”

At least, Anders thought, that Varric had the decency to look sheepish.

“Get rid of them,” Anders said flatly.

“Now, Blondie…” Varric put Bianca back on the table with some care. He held out his hands in a placating gesture.  
“You can’t just station an army of thugs in front of my clinic, Varric!”

“I wouldn’t call them an army, more like a… crew?” Varric offered unhelpfully. He scratched the back of his neck. Anders stared hard at him. 

“They’re scaring off all my patients.”

“Well, that just means that their injuries aren’t that serious.”

Anders fumed. Varric wasn’t going to talk himself out of this one, no way. 

“You don’t get to decide that and neither do some thugs! Get rid of them.” He pounded his fist once on Varric’s table and then took a deep breath. “Please,” he added.

“What if I cut down the number to half?”

“This isn’t a business negotiation!” Anders felt the heat of anger climb higher and higher. Had what happened last night been so bad that his friends now thought of him as some weak-limbed victim who could not take care of himself, that he needed to be watched over by mercenaries lest he injure himself? Why couldn’t they just forget about it like Anders was trying to do?

“Anders,” Varric looked uncharacteristically uncertain, unsure of what to say, “they won’t cause trouble and they know to not harass anyone there.”

“I don’t care.”

Varric sighed. “Let them stick around for a day. They’ve already been paid and you never know if…”

“If what?” Anders replied, voice sharp and cold like the ice he flung at enemies. “What, Varric?”

“Templars?” Varric supplied, glib as always. But Anders let out a bark of laughter, one that did not sound joyous at all.

“No.” Anders leaned over the table, “say what you mean, dwarf. You mean to say that if I get raped again.”

Varric flinched back as if he’d been slapped but Anders felt nothing for him except rage that fueled his tongue. 

“Just because you watched me get fucked by slavers doesn’t give you the right to interfere with my life.” Anders said so harshly that his voice seemed to come out as loud whispers. He couldn’t hear what he was saying but he let them spill from his mouth broken glass. “I don’t need you to take care of me, I never needed you to, and that didn’t change just because I took it up the ass!”

Anders straightened up, forcing himself to calm down.

“Now, I’m going to go look at the Lowtown stalls to see if there are any herbs worth salvaging and by the time I get back to the clinic, there had better not be any more of your men there.” 

When Varric said nothing, he headed towards the door. “There are better things to spend your coin on, Varric.” he said and then left.

True to his word, Anders did not head straight to the clinic but ambled along the winding Lowtown paths. The stalls were, for the most part, manned by merchants who inflated their prices with lies and desperation, but he managed to salvage a serviceable pair of pants and some underwear for a few coppers. He also purchased a large lump of hard bread from a baker who knew him well enough to not cheat him- it wasn’t exactly a feast but was perfectly palatable when combined with watery soup he could cook for himself. Anders didn’t trust the withered bundles of elfroot and spindleweed that was being sold here so instead he spent a few silvers on few rolls of bandages that looked rather spotty in places but unstained and clean for the most part. 

Having purchased his supplies, Anders headed to Lirene’s Ferelden Imports in the corner of Lowtown to empty the rest of the coin purse into the donation box there.

“Anders,” Lirene greeted, as same as she always had, and nodded in thanks when he dropped the handful of coins into the box. “Your help is always appreciated.”

“Most of it is going to end up coming back to the clinic anyway,” Anders replied.

“And you give it right back to us,” Lirene countered, “Maker knows you give out enough of yourself.”

“Yes, well, of course,” Anders said, feeling flustered but Lirene didn’t blink an eye. Instead she pulled out a lump wrapped in brown paper from behind the counter, handing to Anders.

“You need to let people help you, healer,” she said wisely. It turned out to be a loaf of soft white bread and a block of cheese with some cured meats.

“I already have food,” Anders said waving his own but Lirene huffed and refused to take her package back.

“I already know what kind of garbage Cody has been selling off to you. Take it and at least eat some of it before you give it away.”

Anders shook his head but tucked it between all his other purchases. A wise man knew that there was no arguing with Lirene. They exchanged a few pieces of gossip, mostly about what was happening to the refugees and which family was expecting another mouth to feed. Lirene also had a note from Mistress Selby that he folded away carefully in one of his satchels.

A few minutes later, as Anders turned to leave, Lirene spoke up. “Oh, the Champion was in here looking for you earlier.”

“Hawke?” Anders asked incredulously. Lirene nodded.

“Said he was at your clinic but you weren’t there. He looked upset.”

“He must have just missed me then,” Anders said clicking his tongue. His displeasure must have shown on his face.

“Remember what I said about letting people help you,” Lirene’s voice was stern. Anders made a face and left without replying, Lirene’s comment about his maturity following him out the door.

To his relief, the little space in front of his clinic was empty of both hired swords and patients. Anders left the lantern unlit as he slipped into the clinic. With little luck, he could get some rest without interruptions.

But despite the exhaustion that he had been feeling since the day before, sleep did not come to him easily. He could have easily blamed the daylight for this if he had actually lived in a place that got sunlight. The little room he kept in the back of the clinic was perpetually dark, despite the amount of candles he’s lit to keep the shadows at bay. 

When Anders closed his eyes, he could feel hands crawling up his arms and legs, some felt calloused and rough, some felt like they had been encased in steel. Despite the whole of Darktown singing around him, he could hear the small puffs of breath in his ears, the filthy voice calling him things that he desperately tried not to be. And when he did fall into a shallow sleep out of sheer stubbornness, the sensation of violation came upon him, this time, wearing faces of dead men. Slavers and Templars, were they so different in his dreams? They touched him the same way, so violently gentle at times, mercifully painful in others. Anders was split open from one end to another, drowning in arms of another. Warm liquid dripped into his face until it plugged up his eyes and nose and mouth and ears- he could not tell if it was sweat or blood or come that was suffocating him.

At least the slavers had been struck down in justice and vengeance; there had been no such peace for the past.

Anders rose from his cot, somehow more tired that he had been before the short bout of sleep. He splashed away the cold sweat with the water from his basin that smelled faintly of metal. That was fine, at least he didn’t smell like sweat anymore. Rest, he knew, would take few more days to arrive.

So Anders decided to deal with it the best way he knew how- he threw himself into work, Justice’s tireless energy driving him forward. The Mage Underground was doomed; everyone involved in it felt the tightening grip of Knight Commander Meredith, choking them slowly like a serpent. It would be no time at all until they would be forced to abandon all operations. But before that happened, Anders wanted to get as many mages out of the Gallows as he could afford to, though it would never be enough. Alrik was dead, but there would always be others like him with soft threats that worked just as well as ropes and chains to keep the mages bound.

Anders did not trust himself around escaped mages now, not after what had happened with Ella. Instead he worked to clear the underground passages and sewers of Templars and Carta while other contacts got the mages out. Power and destruction from Justice came easily to him now, almost too easily. Anders wasn’t sure if it was because of his slipping grip on control over Justice, or the recent events that made him want to give up on controlling Justice altogether.

When the sun rose in Darktown, Anders dedicated his daytime to the clinic, with barely enough time to eat between patients. He felt himself stretched thin, even with preternatural stamina and strength from both the spirit and the taint inside him. He knew he was on the edge, the smile he wore on his face was worn out of habit than out of contentment and he found himself scraping to feel even an ounce of joy when the Underground succeeded in breaking out another mage.

There were regular patrols outside his clinic from Varric’s thugs and true to his words, the mercenaries did not harass his patients and much fewer in numbers. They never stayed for long but their presence nevertheless grated on Anders’ nerves, reminding him of exactly _why_ Varric was doing this. It was like he was back in the Circle all over again, constantly watched and never trusted with his own well being. 

And Anders knew, from what his assistants and patients told him, that Hawke showed up to his doors everyday, without fail. He did not attempt to come into the clinic and for that Anders was grateful, but could not help the feeling that Hawke was hovering over his shoulders. He would eventually need to face them but for now, he made himself comfortable turning a cold shoulder to them. Their messages for him to join their usual game at the Hanged Man went unanswered, baskets of food left outside where they were picked clean by the street urchins. How else would they realize that Anders did not need them meddling in his life?

At least, he thought, that Fenris wasn’t up to any of that nonsense.

A week passed, the passage of time blurred by fighting and healing, relative peace and unrest. Anders was fully prepared to let at least another week pass in such fashion when Hawke broke the silence by loudly banging on his doors one afternoon. He did not wait for Anders to open the door, opting, instead, to burst into the clinic. Anders’ patients and assistants who were aware of the tense mood that their healer had lately been in, looked up warily. 

Hawke was, strangely enough, alone. 

“Hawke,” Anders greeted him flatly. Hawke was, unfortunately, not the man to be deterred by the lack of welcome in his voice.

“Anders,” Hawke replied gruffly. When Hawke did not say anything, Anders turned and returned to the broken ankle that he had been attending to. Let him do whatever he’d like, Anders thought, get it out of his system. Anders could feel Hawke’s gaze boring into his back as he examined and questioned his patient, felt the unrest from his assistants as Hawke settled into one of the corners of his clinic.

Two hours, it went on for, neither of them saying anything, daring each other to break the silence. Anders treated his patients and attended to his chores while Hawke glared at anyone and anything that moved. Anders assistants, unable to withstand the tense air any longer, begged off much earlier than their usual hours, until finally, the last of the refugees filtered out of the clinic.

“Are you happy now?” Anders said bitterly, giving in and breaking the silence between them. Hawke raised his eyebrows at him.

“First Varric, and now you,” Anders fumed, “why must the both of you insist on scaring off my patients?”

“I did no such thing,” Hawke retorted.

“Yes, and I’m sure that last miner limped out of here because his sprained ankle was miraculously cured!” Anders threw his hands up in the air. “Why are you here anyway, you were fine with leaving me alone for the last week.”

“I-,” Hawke faltered, “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You say that like you haven’t been getting daily reports from Varric.”

Hawke opened his mouth to reply but Anders cut him off. “Do you think me a fool? At least do me the courtesy of being honest with me.”

Hawke crossed his arms. “We are all worried.”

“I said I was fine.” Anders turned around, picked up a rag and started cleaning one of the exam tables- he didn’t have time to deal with this. He heard Hawke snort unflatteringly behind him. 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding us for a week?” Hawke asked.

“I’ve been busy.” Anders told him in clipped tones. He wiped at a particularly stubborn stain on the table. 

“You don’t look busy now.”

“What do you _want_ , Hawke?” Anders asked impatiently.

“Card game at Hanged Man tonight,” Hawke replied, “if you’re not too busy that is.”

The truth was that Anders wasn’t very busy. He had no outstanding ventures with the Underground and Darktown had been blessedly peaceful, with the exception of the usual violence. 

“Fine!” Anders clipped, throwing down the rag, giving up on the stain. 

Satisfied with Anders’ answer, Hawke gave him a single nod. “I’ll see you in an hour then.”

Left alone in his clinic at last, Anders filled his wash basin with water. He would show them tonight that he was getting by just fine, without their constant meddling. He knew what he was doing and he didn’t need their particular brand of help.

The Hanged Man hadn’t changed at all. Not that Anders had expected it to change in the week that he kept himself away but it was comforting to see it’s usual business of drunks, sailors, and sellswords. It seemed that Norah hadn’t even bothered to clean the vomit stain in the corner of the bar that had been made two weeks before. Despite his initial apprehension, Anders felt more sure of himself with each step he took to Varric’s suite, their usual place for card games.

Confidence that promptly got snuffed out as soon as his friends turned around to look at him. 

Anders couldn’t figure out which was worse- the way Varric and Hawke had jumped at his entrance, Fenris’s steadfast refusal to even glance his way, the pitying expression on Merrill’s face, or Isabela’s obviously faked cheer. As determined as he was to see this night through without incident, he could not ignore the lurch of his guts as he realized that someone (probably Varric) had told Merrill and Isabela about what had happened.

“So,” Anders said casually taking a seat in an empty chair around Varric’s table, “Aveline’s not here yet?”

“Nah, something about raiding a warehouse down by the docks, but she might be joining us later.” Varric replied, his fingers busily shuffling the deck of cards.

“Right,” Anders said, motioning for Varric to deal him in. It was unusual for him to join the game this early, usually preferring to drink and eat before undoubtedly losing his coin to his friends. It had limited his losses and given him a chance to take a moment to breathe so soon after his day at the clinic. Tonight, however, Anders needed the excuse of cards in his hands to avoid looking at his friends’ faces. 

“So,” Isabela spoke casually as she threw two copper coins onto the table, “I heard you took care of that Tal-Vashoth problem up on the Coast yesterday?”

Hawke nodded, glancing to his cards, then placing his own bets onto the pile. “Don’t I always take care of the Tal-Vashoth problem?” He said gruffly.

“And the raider problem and the slaver problem and the blood mage problem.” Isabela snickered, switching some cards around in her hands.

Anders frowned. He hadn’t heard about Hawke going to the Coast this week at all- who had Hawke gone with, dealing with Tal-Vashoth without a healer?

“You’re not hurt?” Anders asked.

Hawke shook his head, his eyes still glued on his cards but Varric chuckled beside him. “Took a nasty hit to his ribs, he’s sides are probably all bruises by now.”

“So you were with him.” Anders said, his voice was clipped. Hawke looked up at him from his damn cards. 

“I… thought you were busy,” Hawke told him with a frown.

“Not like that mattered the other times you took me out of my clinic,” Anders said lightly but his voice was laced with bitter sarcasm. “But I’m glad you’ve suddenly started respecting my business hours now.”

Wisely, Hawke chose to not respond to that. 

Tense sort of silence fell over the table, with Merrill’s huge round eyes nervously darting from Anders to Hawke to Isabela, who was too good of a liar to show any discomfort in the turn the conversation had taken. As the bets were placed, Anders also threw his own two bits in, his cards, for once in his life, being pretty decent. 

Anders knew that his outrage didn’t make sense. He was painfully aware of how he spent his week avoiding and dodging Hawke and Varric, keeping himself occupied with busy days and busier nights. He had no right to feel so rejected. Yet, he couldn’t deny the churning feelings inside himself, raging like a storm. Without work and patients to occupy his thoughts, it was as if a dam had broken inside of him, the doubts and thoughts that he had denied himself rushing back all at once. 

_He thinks I am weak_.

The thought prickled in the back of his skull. Hawke was the protective sort, Anders knew this, he kept faithful watch on all his friends- understandable, Anders had thought, after what happened to his family. But hadn’t Anders proved himself time and time again? protecting Hawke’s and everyone else’s asses whenever they charged recklessly into a mob of fanatics and gangs and bandits and whatever else the world decided to throw at them. Hadn’t he protected them still, in that blasted slaver cavern?

Anders lost the round but that was to be expected. He never came into these games thinking that he could win. He took a deep breath, his exhale rattling like a shaken sigh. Isabela collected her winnings from the table with a hum and Varric started dealing out the cards again. It was a quiet night, compared to all other game nights at the Hanged Man, and Anders let himself feel the slightest trickle of guilt for making it so. 

Anders took a sip of his watered down ale and cleared his throat. He could not avoid his friend forever, and this was not at all helping him move past that experience. 

Anders peeked at his cards- not bad, once again, though not good enough to beat whatever cheating schemes Isabela and Varric would employ. It still saved him the embarrassment of having the worst hand in the group so Anders took it as a win.

A murmur of conversation started up as a third round of cards went around the table. Merrill started telling them a story about a newly born litter of kittens in the alienage and the effort made by the elven children there to collectively take care of them. It was a nice story, as all Merrill’s stories tended to be, and it made him laugh, at least a little. Judging by her smug expression, that had been the purpose of her telling the story.

The thought soured Anders’ mood almost immediately. Anders glared down at his cards. She shouldn’t even have known about the whole ordeal. There was absolutely no reason for her to stick her nose in his business, best she keep her bloodied hands to herself lest she lose it.

Anders lost his third hand too, this time to Fenris, his pockets felt noticeably lighter now, though he had only played for coppers and folded his hands early. He’d play one more hand then call it a night- he didn’t think he could stomach his friends’ company for more than that, and neither could his short purse strings.

And then, just as Anders was prepared to hand over the remainders of his coins to Isabela once again, he won.

Anders was far from happy. His grip on his winning hand tightened and he made no move to collect his winnings, a tantalizing pile of copper and silver coins, even a single sovereign, courtesy of Hawke. 

“Nice hand, Blondie,” Varric said as he gathered the cards, shuffling them in his hands absently. He motioned for Anders to hand back the cards in his hands.

“Did you,” Anders said darkly, “just let me win?”

“Excuse me?” Varric asked at the accusation.

“I asked if you just let me win, Varric.” And before Varric could say answer, Anders threw the cards onto the table where they scattered on the table. 

“So you think I can’t even handle losing cards now?” Anders near yelled. Fury had shot through his brain like a bolt of lightning. He was tired of dwelling on this- he wanted to move on, and not be reminded of the damned rape he’s endured every moment he came face to face with his friends. Had that been too much to ask for?

Anders stood up abruptly, sending his chair scattering onto the floor. But he did not care and he could not see the stricken expressions on their faces. His vision was all blinding white.

“Stop,” he was definitely yelling now, “just stop with it all, I told you I’m fine!”

“Hey, Anders, come on,” Isabela tried, but Anders was quick to turn on her.

“Stay out of it, pirate,” he snarled, and wrenching out the word ‘pirate’ like an insult, “What would you know of it?”

“A lot more than you’d think,” she answered coolly.

“And it would still be none of your fucking business,” Anders didn’t see the frown on her face as he whirled on Varric again. “I don’t need you to coddle me from the dangers of losing cards and I don’t need you to protect me from my own damn patients!”

“Stop meddling in my life.”

“We’re only trying to help,” Hawke said quietly from his end of the table.

“By doing what, exactly?” Anders voice was getting louder with every spoken word, frustration finally erupting after a week of being kep bottled up. 

“I’m _trying_ to move past it but I can’t do it with all of you reminding me!” Anders took a gulp of air, his head spun as blood rushed into it all too fast. “Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of a victim!”

“Anders…” Hawke tried, his voice low and grave from across the table. Anders glared, daring him to continue but like the last few days, Hawke seemed to be at a loss for words. He frowned, his thick, black beard moving with the twitching muscles on his face. Enraged at Hawke’s silence, Anders threw the cards in his hands, crumpled up like rubbish in his tight fist. They fluttered uselessly onto the table, already interrupted with the remainders of their unfinished card game. 

His mouth, fueled by the anger and frustration, moved on its own free will.

“What?” Anders asked the stunned faced around him, “You think I can’t handle some lowlifes sticking their cocks in my asshole?”

“They’ve only meant to help!” Merrill squeaked from her corner of the room. Her large, green eyes quivered like she was about to cry. Anders saw the pity reflected in them and the tears threatening to spill over at his accusations. Irrational anger rose from his heart to his brain, filling his ears with deafening buzzing.

“I don’t need help!” Anders shouted, “Do you honestly think this is my first time I’ve been raped in a fucking cave?”

It took a second for the words to settle in the air, like heavy, wet poisonous mist. No one said anything, only for a short while, surely, but the silence dragged on for what felt like hours. Over the din of his own heart pounding, Anders heard himself breathing harshly as if he had just run a mile. He gave a wild grin to the shocked faces around him.

“This wasn’t even the second time,” he said. There was an ugly, vicious hint of glee in his words, and once the truth had come spilling out, Anders could not stop the outpour that followed. 

“The first time,” Anders held up his fingers, ticking them off one by one as he went on, “was after my third escape attempt. I was sixteen, made it a week before the Templars caught up with me.”

“The second time lasted for days because it had been storm season in the countryside, the third time was inside the Circle because the Templars liked to talk, you know? Everyone wanted a bit of fun, why not just take Anders?”

Anders sneered at the silence. The sound of drunken revelry filtered through the heavy door to Varric’s suite, filling the heavy atmosphere there with meaningless noise.

“I lost count at how many Templars took me during my solitary, I didn’t think it mattered when I was already going mad anyway.” His sneered had turned into something so much more horrible, his teeth bared like a crazed dog.

“So I _think_ that I have some idea of what I’m doing.” Anders’s voice had dropped to a whisper now, “I’ve gotten through all those time by myself and I don’t need you to look after me.”

With that, he stamped his feet once, turned around, and rushed outside, fleeing from both his friends’ horrified expression and the words that had spilled out of him.

Anders stepped outside, breathing in Lowtown’s night air that was permanently tinted with the smell of rotting food and drunken vomit. Despite the foul smell, air seemed to seep into every corner of his body, clearing the haze of emotions that had settled into him. He took a deep breath, glancing up at the metal figure of a hanged man that swung lazily at the slightest breeze.

Anders felt regret creeping slowly into the void where his rage had been. He hadn’t meant to say any of the things he did- there was no reason for any of them to know what he had experienced in the Circle and at the hands of Templars-he did not want to give any of them reason to belittle his cause. But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Words, once spilled, were impossible to unspill. 

His feet, weighed down by exhaustion, slowly made their way to Darktown. How he would face his friends after tonight, he did not know. Plagued by his own worries and thought, Anders did not hear the soft footfalls that followed him until he was well into Darktown, it’s denizens still awake despite the late hour. 

“Anders,” Fenris called out softly behind him.

Anders snorted, one that was devoid of humor, and a touch unpleasant. “Of all the people that I expected to follow me, I was betting on Hawke, not you.”

“And that is why you always lose at cards,” Fenris replied quietly.

Anders shook his head, biting off a sharp retort that had been halfway out of his lips. He was tired, too tired to fight again. Without turning around, he gestured forward. “Darktown is no place for conversations.”

Fenris followed Anders to the clinic, always keeping three paces behind Anders. He appreciated the gesture.

As they both slipped into the empty and darkened clinic, Anders locked the door behind Fenris and lit the lamp with the flick of his wrist. Pale moonlight was streaming into the clinic from the windows high up on the wall, the sound of the coast just outside Kirkwall could be heard beyond the stone walls.

Anders gave Fenris no mind as he sat heavily on the chair of his desk, the old wooden thing creaking and complaining loudly. Absently, Anders gathered the bits of parchment that had been scattered on the desk, organizing bits of patient notes and drafts of manifestos into a single pile. Neither of them spoke, unwilling to break the silence between them.

Anders sighed and Fenris shuffled his feet, gingerly sitting on the edge of one of the cots near Anders.

“Well?” Anders asked, hoping to get whatever this was out of the way, “not that I don’t enjoy seeing you quiet for once, but I would like to get some sleep before dawn.”

“I…” Fenris started, clearing his throat uselessly, “Is it true? The things you said?”

“What?” Anders quirked his lips when Fenris flinched at his sharp tone, “Did I really get raped by Templars in the Circle?”

Though Anders should have been outraged at Fenris’s doubt- he certainly did not hesitate to find Fenris’s other thoughts offensive- he could not find even an ounce of energy to do so. It was as if Anders had scraped the bottom of his emotional reserve and now he was empty, incapable of feeling anything that wasn’t exhaustion.

“Believe what you’d like, elf, it would change nothing.”

Fenris did not reply to that. He looked down at his toes, the orange lamplight making shadows dance on the dirt floors of the clinic.

“It does not matter,” Fenris shook his head, “That is not what I came here for.”

“Out with it, then.”

“I came here to, ah, thank you.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. 

“Thank me?” Anders asked back.

“Yes,” Fenris nodded, clearing his throat once again before continuing, “I did not forget what those slavers said and what they had been planning.”

“Right.” Anders said, still unsure of how to proceed.

“Is that why you directed their anger at yourself, then? Because you’ve experienced it before?” Though Fenris’s tone was questioning, Anders knew that Fenris needed no further confirmation for his theory.

“I was the least injured,” Anders said instead, “And I am a healer, I could have healed whatever they did to me.”

“Still, you must have known that they would taken their pleasure with you.”

Anders sighed, a puff of breath that felt heavier out than in. “Yes, better me than Hawke or Varric or…”

“Me.” Fenris finished flatly.

“You had an arrow through your shoulder.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“What is it that you want me to say, Fenris?” Anders asked him, leaning a bit harder on his rickety old chair.

“Nothing more than you are willing to share,” Fenris said and Anders almost bristled at that response. Since when had _Fenris_ of all people had become so reasonable? 

“You saw the effect the slavers had on me,” he continued, “And you took it up on yourself to focus the slavers on yourself so that they would not touch us.”

“Yes, yes,” Anders nodded impatiently, drumming his fingers on the desk now, “I am a fantastically selfless person and the Chantry will be erecting a statue in Hightown in my name, are you happy now?”

“Not particularly, no,” Fenris said and in the shadowed darkness of the clinic, Ander saw a corner of his mouth quirk into an almost-smile. “But I have been told that that’s not my strong suit.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks, you know,” Anders said petulantly. 

“I know this,” Fenris nodded, “You did it because you cared.”

Anders said nothing because it was true. No matter the arguments he had with Fenris, how many times he’s been frustrated with Varric’s inaction and Hawke’s choices, he could not bear to see his friends suffer so.

“And that makes you a hypocrite,” Fenris said this with no accusation in his voice, so casually that he might have been commenting on the weather.

“And here I thought we were having a nice little conversation without you insulting me for once,” Anders replied lightly. 

“It is not meant as an insult and you should not take it as such. I doubt there is anyone in the whole of Thedas who isn’t at least a bit hypocritical.”

Anders frowned though he wasn’t particularly angry. “What’s your point?” He asked.

“I did not want you to make yourself a target for the slavers and neither had Varric,” Fenris said, still calm and quiet, “I will admit that I had certain reactions when they started planning what they were going to do with us, but I certainly did not wish that another would take my place.”

“Right,” Anders replied.

“And yet, you would not see your friends extend the same courtesy to you.”

“That’s different.” Anders said, “and they’re not helping matters with their meddling.”

“To accept their care or to reject it is your choice, but you need not deal with it alone.” Fenris told him. 

“And if you were to ask for a time, I am sure they would not hesitate to give it to you.” Anders believed Fenris, though his mind was busy formulating rebuttals, that was out of habit rather than true desire to fight. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Anders retorted, “You should see Hawke standing outside my door like a lost mabari.”

Fenris gave sort of a chuckle that he immediately covered up with a cough. Anders, for the first time since he’s known Fenris, found him charming.

“I think I have said enough for now,” Fenris said, pushing himself off the cot, “I will leave you to rest.”

“Er, right,” Anders jumped to his feet but Fenris motioned for him to sit back down.

“Rest, mage, I will see myself out.”

“Of course,” Anders said, “I, uh, well, thank you for this, Fenris, I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble,” Fenris said, giving Anders a slight bow of his head. He had made his way to the door and was halfway out of it when he paused. “I should also tell you…”

“Yes?”

“Do not blame Isabela and Merrill, they just simply just overheard the conversation I was having with Varric.”

“Oh.” Anders remarked, “right, thank you.”

“Good night,” Fenris said and slipped out into the night.

That night, for the first time in a week since he’d come out of that slaver’s cave, Anders slept, without a single nightmare.


End file.
